Caged
by JacksMermaid
Summary: Escaping cages, both selfimposed and inflicted. Post AWE, Sparrabeth.


_**AU:** Life can be a cage. It's the choices we make that decide whether we escape into freedom._**  
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_**Disclaimer:** Disney, Ted, Terry, Gore, and everyone else involved own it all. The fic is my own, I'm not making any money, blah blah blah. Jack and Elizabeth own themselves and keeping trying to do things in my head that surprise me..._**  
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**The Cage**

This wasn't what she'd had in mind, this celebration of her return in the form of a fancy ball. Anyone she really would have wanted there _(Jack)_ wouldn't be welcome or comfortable. Anyone that she actually owed her life to _(Jack, Marty, Gibbs, Ragetti, even bloody James)_ wouldn't be welcome or comfortable. This really wasn't what she wanted, not with Will gone to find his own future somewhere and everyone else _(Jack)_ gone and she a castaway on this stupid dance floor in this ridiculous ballroom in this farce of a home.

Her father fluttered around the room, chatting up various people of means in order to regain some of his social standing while simultaneously trying to influence several young men to come take a look at his lovely young daughter who, at this point, was so ruined beyond repair that none would come near her unless they were very desperate, very poor or very disreputable. She shook her head. _Poor father._ And on the heels of that, uncharitably, _Poor fool._ And hard after that, _Poor me._ For soon, she'd be leaving it all behind, the warmth of the Caribbean, as her father had made their plans to return to England. _For the best,_ her father said. For whose best? Certainly not hers.

She slid through the room, keeping to the edges, ghosting past the candlelight, feeling unreal and insubstantial. Faces seemed hard, colors seemed alternately too bright or too muted. Dancers whirled across the floor in seeming abandon and everything was just… _wrong._ This wasn't life. This wasn't reality. This wasn't the snap of canvas and the rush of waves, the smell of gunpowder and tar. The silk under her fingers was too fine, not the rough wool of… a coat, stiffened by salt and use. The worn linen of breeches. The texture of raised skin, networked with scars and… _Stop._

Eyes followed her in the shadows, in the flickering candlelight, past the hired musicians, across the tables laden with food. She felt them looking, heard them whispering, didn't care. She snatched up a glass of claret from one of the footmen, downed the wine in almost one gulp and then heard the round of whispering _that_ little movement began. She momentaily considered sending the empty glass flying into the crowd of harpies that stood nearby, but thought of her poor father and stopped herself. Barely. Control was slipping.

Fluttering hands and gowns… bodies dipping and swaying in time to music… the float of the sheer lawn curtains coming through the window… everything seemed ghostly. She felt as though she were moving through fog, as though her feet were mired down. She slid between groups of people, ignoring the few voices that hailed her, ignoring the conversations of her arrogance, her ruin… ignoring the malicious titterings of how she must have tupped every… _No. No one. Not even… him. _ She paused a moment to turn and look at the group of young women she'd just passed, all her age, all perfectly marriageable. _All perfectly in need of a taste of a flogging, of something real and ugly to mar their self-supposed purity._ Her thoughts must have shown in her eyes, for all four women suddenly blanched, averting their eyes before they turned and walked quickly away.

She swept through the room, not heeding the call of her father, ducking through the crowd until she'd reached the veranda, pushing through the filmy curtains that blew over and around her. Here, she could finally breathe. Here, she could look out towards the sea, towards the harbour. Towards where she wished the _'Pearl_ sat, waiting for her. _Jack. Jack. Jack, Jack, jackjackjack…_ He'd left her. As Will had left her, but for different reasons. Will had left because of her indifference to his love, because she had gently urged him to find a new life, away from her and away from Port Royal, perhaps finding himself in the process. It had hurt, a little, but it had freed her as well. He hadn't been surprised when she had gently broken their engagement, he'd held her when she cried, and had kissed her gently when he left. Jack, however…

Jack had left her from cowardice, near as she could tell and far as she could fathom. When they'd found him, when they'd brought him back, he'd been alternately grateful and snide. Typical Jack. Throughout the journey back to the Caribbean, she and Will had floated farther and farther away from each other, while she and Jack had circled each other in some erratic orbit, never coming close enough to touch, never coming close enough to really speak what they thought or act on what they felt. His eyes had haunted her steps, jealously watching every movement but never speaking to her beyond the day-to-day; her face had followed him as though he were the sun and she the flower, mute and pale. And poor Will had sat through it all, uncomplaining. He'd understood, even if she didn't quite. But Jack? He and the crew had brought her back to Port Royal even when every day, she'd worked herself as hard as any of them, when every day she had begged with her eyes not to be taken back, not to be abandoned. But her pride wouldn't let her speak, and neither would his.

And so, they'd come back to Port Royal, all of them pretending that it was so she could see her father, be reunited with him, and that it was the right and good thing. Of course it was right, her father had wept when he'd seen her again. Her eyes, however, had been utterly dry. She'd cried her last tears on the night before they'd sailed into Port Royal, hiding in a corner of the hold and crying for everything that been lost: her marriage, her adventures. Her innocence. Except, funny enough, that was physically still intact.

Jack had set her ashore in the moonlight, rowing her silently into the harbour while the _'Pearl_ stayed far enough off that they could escape quickly should somone decide to take a shot at them. Neither of them had said a word, neither had looked at the other until they'd reached the pier. And then he'd looked at her in that way he had of late, great sad eyes that took over for his usual clown face. He'd opened his mouth to speak and she'd beat him to it, thanked him for everything. When she'd also started to say she was sorry for everything, one last time, he'd swiftly leaned forward, slid his hand behind her head and kissed her hard, desperately… thoroughly. Split-open. Dying. Several seconds of shock and joy and despair mixed with a drowning lust. And then he'd released her, and a single strangled word had come from him, _"Go."_

Gasping from the effort of holding back tears, knowing he knew it, she'd scrambled up onto the dock. When she'd turned to look back at him, he was already rowing hell-bent for the _'Pearl_. And nothing had ever really been said. Nothing had been resolved. Nothing had been acknowledged. She'd walked to the edge of the pier, had hailed one of the soldiers on duty and then embarrassed herself by promptly fainting when she'd seen Mr. Groves' familiar face and heard his cry of astonishment. She excused it on exhaustion, but knew it was abject sorrow. And everything had spiraled out from there, her father's tears, the explanations between the two of them of all that had happened, the numerous baths, the gown fittings for a frame that had lost too much weight, the rich food that disgusted her too much to eat, the plans for her forced re-entry into society… And nearly four weeks later, here she was again: a pretty doll for her father's pleasure, ready to be set in a glass case and locked away. Not a pirate. Not anymore.

The breeze had picked up, carrying the salt tang into her nose and mouth, making her want to weep. The music continued behind her, almost sinister now, haunting, mocking her own moans. _Everything_ was a mockery. This wasn't where she belonged, birth and breeding be damned. She suddenly felt trapped, nearly hysterical, and scrabbled at the bodice imprisoning her, trying to find a way out even as she knew the laces in back were beyond her reach. _Stop it,_ she told herself, _it's just a dress, it can be taken off._ She began to tear at her hair instead, ruining the perfection that her maids had created, tossing aside pins and combs and raking through curls so that it would all fall down where it was supposed to be, so that it would be natural and not some doll's hair. She could hear her breath coming in panting gasps, could feel herself tearing at her scalp but she couldn't seem to stop. _I'm not a doll,_ she chanted to herself, _I'm not a doll, I'm not… _At some point, she realized she was crying out.

Someone's hands came up and around her, someone's hands grabbed her own, murmuring at her to be still, that it was alright. Someone was picking her up in their arms and carrying her out, away from the veranda, away from the sea. _"Jack,"_ she moaned, and the voice told her to be still, that no one would hurt her anymore. She had images of the ballroom floating past her, of faces and colors, but she couldn't see clearly. _"Jack,"_ she whispered again, and heard the comforting shushing noise again from above the pair of strong arms that carried her. She tried to look up, but couldn't focus on the face and knew it wouldn't be the face she wanted anyway. And then she heard her name being called, but she couldn't stay anymore.

She surfaced… shuddered, bucked, lashed out and again felt her hands being caught up, felt herself being dragged into a warm body, felt arms encircling her. Her eyes fluttered open, but wouldn't quite focus. She could feel the rumble of a voice from the chest she was held against, hear nonsense words of comfort. The chaise they were sitting on, the velvet under her fingers brought her some sense of reality, as did the hand smoothing back her loose hair. With an effort, she cleared her head and her eyes. The library, of course. Just outside the ballroom and quiet. The buttons of the coat she was held against were pressing into her skin and she slowly looked up. It was a stranger, a man with a heavy beard whom she did not know, and she flailed, trying to push herself away from him, striking at him.

"Miss Swann, it's alright, I'm not going to… _stop it_…" He held her more tightly and she cried out. Her father's face suddenly swam into view, babbling something, telling her to stop or the man to stop or… She wanted to tell her father that she was perfectly aware that this _all_ needed to stop, but her voice wouldn't work. With effort, she pushed herself away from the man holding her, falling to the floor and then scrambling to her feet to make an effort to flee. The stranger's arms had circled her again, gripping her, not letting go. She heard her father calling as she kicked out at the man. "Do be a good girl and _hush_," she heard in her ear. And then there was a flare of pain as a fist connected with her jaw and she knew no more.

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"Was that completely necessary, Doctor?" she heard her father's fussy voice as she surfaced again, "Look at her!" She imagined she must have quite the colorful bruise and she raised her hand to explore her face. _Ouch._

"It was'e fastest way of getting her to calm down," she heard a gravelly, accented voice rumble in reply. French? Spanish? Something else entirely or a mix of all?

She slowly opened her eyes. Her room, it would appear, and her own bed that she lay on. She gingerly sat up to see her father and the bearded man that she assumed to be the doctor both looking at her.

"Elizabeth, are you alright, dearest?" her father came to her, sitting on the bed beside her and patting her hand. She looked at him, her brow furrowed. _I should say something, shouldn't I say something to him?_ But she could think of nothing.

"I am sorry, er, Mis'Swann, about your face. But you weren't in your right mind and…" The doctor was looking at her strangely, eyes glittering above his unfashionably heavy beard as though _he_ were waiting for her to say something as well. He was finely dressed, but he moved as though he was uncomfortable, and his eyes darted around the room from beneath a large, beplumed hat.

She cocked her head to one side and finally her voice came out. "Get out." Her father flinched, trying to encircle her with his arm, and she shook it off. "Please. Leave me. I'm fine and I… I want to be left alone." She turned to look at her father, "I'm sorry about your party. I'm not well, please make my excuses."

She could see the pain in his eyes but could no longer summon up any sorrow for having caused it. She knew he would excuse her illness on womanly vapours or some other female affliction, never guessing the real cause of her pain. And she suddenly wanted him away from her so violently that she had to restrain the urge to strike him. "I'll get your maids to help you undress, then," he told her, patting her hand again as she grit her teeth. "Doctor?" He rose, looking to the bearded man and holding open the chamber door.

"A word with your daughter, Governor. Jus'to make sure she's alright," the doctor's odd, gravelly voice said, and Swann nodded.

"Please let me know when you're finished so we can… discuss." He threw a concerned look back at his wayward daughter and sighed, before stepping out into the hallway.

Elizabeth looked at the doctor, her brow furrowed. He was so strange, so incongruous with his heavy beard, his accent, his fine clothes, and his seeming discomfort. Foreign, certainly. No one here would wear such a gaudy hat. He shed his coat onto the back of a chair and took a step forward, "Now, then, Mis'Swann…" He came to sit beside her and she eyed him, warily. He took her pale hand, turning it over in his brown one, studying its thinness, the transparency of her skin. "You haven't been taking care of yourself, it seems. Your father is very concerned."

She looked at him, wearily, pulling her hand away, "My father is always concerned, Doctor…?" She waited for his name, curious as to his origin, but he did not give it. Instead, he reached for her chin, holding it firmly and looking at her face. She dropped her eyes, not wanting to look at him. "Bruises under the eyes. Lack of fresh air and sunlight, I think." He released her chin, cleared his throat, "I would imagine your young man would be worried as well, no?" That strange accent, it was nearly driving her mad. She almost thought she had it, and then it would change.

"I have no 'young man,' Sir. My father and I are returning to England soon and I'm sure I'll get plenty of sunshine on _that_ voyage." The doctor started, making some soft noise that almost sounded like an oath. She supposed it was the way she'd said it, nearly spat it; she couldn't help the venom in her voice. She knew it would be the exact opposite; she'd be relegated to shadows and safety once on board. For the rest of her life, really, jealously hoarding any possible scrap of freedom whenever she could. Her breath caught slightly, and the doctor took her chin again.

She waited for him to examine her further, to be done with this so that she could catch her breath and make it all stop… and then realized he was holding her chin steady, waiting for her to look up. She cast her eyes upward, feeling as if they were weighed down by anchors, and met his eyes. Dark eyes. So dark brown as to be nearly black, in a dark brown face with that ungodly bushy beard. Spaniard, then, had to be. Or a Turk, perhaps? Indian? There was something about the eyes though, so intense they seemed to see through her. He was still holding her chin captive and she began to frown, wanting to be done with him and left alone.

"Does this voyage back to England meet with your approval?" he asked her, his accent softened by how quiet his voice had become.

She swallowed, casting her eyes out towards the window. "No," she said wearily, "No, Doctor, it does not. But it's for the best." She threw him a twisted smile, then, "Or so everyone tells me."

"_Like hell,"_ he suddenly said under his breath, and her head jerked. She looked at him more intently and he cleared his throat. "Now then, Mis'Swann," he began, accent thick again.

She slid her hand down to his arm to pull his hand away, to stop him from holding her chin… and her fingers slid over raised skin, uneven beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. Her breath caught for a moment, held, and he saw it. He jerked his arm away from her quickly. "Tell me again, Doctor, just where is it you're from?" she asked him, watching him now, praying she was wrong. Half-praying she was right.

"Well, many places, really, coast of Spain originally and…" He quickly got up, stepping away from her. He glanced back at her, saw her eyes blazing and softly, distinctly said, _"Bugger."_

She quickly moved forward, grabbing his arm and shoving back the sleeve to reveal a network of scars and the vivid "P" mark raised into the skin. She began to shake her head wonderingly, stepping away and slumping back down onto her bed. "It's an absolutely horrible disguise. Honestly. And you're a complete scoundrel," she told him. Her eyes began helplessly welling up with tears and she hated them, hated their weakness. Hating her own weakness most of all.

"Erm, Mis'Swann, really," he tried again, clearing his throat.

"_Stop_ it. I mean it. That is the worst bloody beard I have ever seen, have you looked in a mirror? And the voice is ridiculous, never mind the hat." Her breath hitched, struggling not to let the tears out.

"Well, it fooled everyone else enough to get me in the door. Fooled you even, for a bit. Did you like my coat, though, love?" Jack asked her, in his normal light, dancing voice, coming back to sit beside her and reaching out to her with one arm while he tugged at the false hair around his chin with the other. He removed the offending hat to reveal the mass of his hair, tightly tied back. "Bloody headache, this."

She got up and stepped away from him, from the pain it caused to have him here. "Get out, Jack. You have no business here."

"Don't I? You didn't look so well in there," he got up, slowly moving toward her. _Stalking me,_ she thought. "Looked awful, in fact." He stopped, considering, "Actually, you were the most beautiful bloody thing I'd ever seen in my life, until you'd gone out onto the veranda. And then you scared the hell out of me."

"Don't," she begged, knowing she couldn't stop him, knowing she didn't really want to.

He reached her, slowly brought up a hand to her jaw, cupping it. "Oh, my 'Liz'beth," he sighed, his face wearing that sad look again, "What've you done to yourself, hey?" He lightly ran a hand down her tangled hair and she shuddered, slapping his hand away.

"_Don't!"_ she cried out, softly. "Just go, Jack. Sail away, go where ever it is you go and leave me in peace. It's all over now, everyone's gone their ways and the journey is finished."

He looked at her, cocking his head to one side, "Is it?" he asked, softly. "I suppose this is what you want, then? This house and the fancy gowns and all? I mean, that's why you were nearly ripping your own skin off in there to get away from it… the gowns and the dancing and the people who are all _so_ bloody like you… right? Neat little prison you have here, Miss Swann." He shook his head slightly at her and she broke. Her legs gave out and she began to slide to the floor before she found herself in his arms. Again.

He'd walked her to the bed and had laid her down when a maid entered the room, gasping in alarm. "Miss Swann's alright," he quickly said, "Fetch some, er, tea and some hot water or something, take your time," he flapped his hand at the girl, who promptly dashed out. Jack turned back to look at Elizabeth, his hand smoothing back her hair again. "You've really not been eating, have you?" he chided gently, and her breath caught in a sob at the tenderness in his voice. "Nor taking any proper care of yourself at all," he continued, "can't have that, can we? Appears I can't leave you alone for a moment."

"Three weeks and six days," she corrected him, breath hitching.

"Three weeks, six days and thirteen hours," he replied, gravely.

"Jack," she whispered, "I couldn't bear it, I missed you, I…" she couldn't speak, the tears were choking her and she was so damn tired, so worn out. "I'm not supposed to _be_ here…"

"I know, I know," he crooned, snatching her up into his arms and rocking her. "I was a fool. It's alright, love. You're coming with me, now. I'll get you out."

She found it distinctly odd and yet so right that he spoke of getting her out, as though she were escaping a prison. _I am,_ she thought faintly, _this life is my prison._ "How?" she asked.

He smiled down at her, "You make the choice and go. That simple, isn't it? Swann will be alright. He's already made his plans to go back to England. You make your farewells and come with me. You'd have done the same if you'd… well, married." He faltered here, and she would have laughed had she the strength.

"Marriage has no place in piracy," she whispered, smiling faintly.

"Who knows," he shrugged, "stranger things have happened. Life's full of funny surprises and no promises and all manner of things in between. We'll have to see where the wind takes us." He grinned at her sweetly then, a full and unabashed Jack Sparrow grin and she couldn't help but let out a choked sob at it, at having him there, and he held her tightly in response.

She knew she was in no condition for flight, and so the option was fight. And she assumed it would be a fight with her father when he saw who'd come to take her away. "Won't be easy," she warned Jack, pulling back to look at him.

"Nothing with you ever bloody is, my girl," he teased back.

"I meant leaving here tonight." She raised an ineffectual fist to swat at him, but it was no more than a light brush against his shoulder, and she saw him frown at it, saw his eyes glitter with some undefined emotion.

"Going to have to fatten you up, dearie," he told her softly, kissing her pale hand, "You're no good to me so washed out and weak." He chuckled at her frown. "Anything you're overly attached to?" His eyes scanned her room, and she shook her head. "Then I'll bet I can get you out of here with no manner of trouble at all."

He moved to pick her up again and she stopped him. "Jack. I can't just _leave_, I need to say something to him…" She paused. What the devil _was_ she going to say to her father about this? It was _Jack_, far worse than poor blacksmith Will. Oh, it was damn good her father was going back to England. Still, if there were an easier way than conflict, than listening to him…

He looked at her, breaking in on her frantic thoughts, "Letter?"

She flushed. He always knew what she was thinking. And in the end, it was why she loved him so, why no matter what happened or what they went through, they were so suited for each other. "Letter," she agreed and Jack brought her the writing desk and inkbottle. "And quickly."

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Later when he was spiriting her down the hallways and out of the house, bundled up in his arms (with a few choice and expensive trinkets loading down his pockets and her satchel), she had to fight the urge to laugh at the madness of it all. _Bundled off by a pirate again,_ she thought. But this time, so very willingly.

Even later, when they'd reached the _'Pearl_ and the lads had expressed their gladness at seeing her, she realized she could breathe again. And it wasn't the missing corsets, either. It was the sense of home, well and truly _home_. She could be nowhere else, and she would be happy here for the rest of her days. As long as he was with her, she'd be alright.

That morning, when she lay in Jack's arms in his – _their_ – bed, sated at last and curiosity gloriously resolved, she knew that this was where she had always meant to be. With him, no matter what happened or where they went. Fate had indeed intervened, from the moment she'd first seen him on that dock, dripping wet and leaning above her like a selkie. He'd saved her in every way possible, from death, from imprisonment, and most importantly, from herself. And she'd never be caged again.

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_**AU:** From hours of listening to both Evanescence's "Lacrymosa" and Mozart's Requiem "Lacrimosa" on repeat and imagining sinister (non-period) waltzes. Seriously. Give them a listen – especially the Evanescence version - while you read this. You'll get where I was with the ballroom. _

_Thanks, as always, to my love DancingNellieRubyTuesday, best beta EVAH._


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